About Me

Jim is the author of eight novels, three memoirs and four business books. He made a covered wagon and horseback trip across Texas to retrace the journey his ancestors had made two generations earlier and wrote Biscuits Across the Brazos to chronicle the trip. He traveled the team roping circuit as an amateur and worked roundups on big ranches. Working beside real cowboys sent him back to writing. Using lessons he had learned from more than 10,000 client interviews over thirty years and memories from his rural Texas roots, Jim published five novels in his Follow the Rivers series and three in the Tee Jessup/Riverby series. He has also published three memoirs and story collections.He has been a Writers Digest International Book Contest Finalist.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

As I followed the brother-in-law to Rocky’s house, I tried
to recall the number of times I had seen Rocky and could only remember once,
maybe twice, and he had been a small boy. But he, like his father, was famous
in our family because of his cowboy prowess. Rocky had been a rodeo bronc rider
and world champion steer roper and his grandmother (my aunt) told stories about
his victories on the rodeo circuit often. He had followed a path I dreamed of
as a boy.

I didn’t see how I could have passed by Rocky’s place
without seeing it, but I had. It could not be seen from the farm road. The only
evidence was a gate that looked like it led to a pasture, not a residence. When
we entered the gate opening, the road sloped sharply down into a valley or
meadow. I saw a barn with a carport on the front sitting on the incline.

A small pickup and a dualie, both well-used, and a pickup
hitched to a horse trailer sat out front. The horse inside the trailer nickered
when I walked by. Two young boys about ten or twelve were roping a practice dummy
in the yard. After all that glory, all that success, was this where the former
world champion lived—in a barn?

As the brother-in-law opened the front door without
knocking, I hesitated. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I was a
long-lost relative barging in, uninvited and unannounced. But I did have
something to talk about. Henry Bascom Alexander, my
great-grandfather, was Rocky’s great-great grandfather. I would begin with the
story of finding his tombstone in nearby Antlers. It was a flimsy excuse, but I
used it. The inside of the barn was not what I expected.

Rocky sat in an easy chair with his hat in his
hand, son Cody sat at a kitchen bar. I was drawn to a beautiful stairway
complemented and supported by a huge, finished tree trunk. A pair of Peet’s boots and his hat
sat on top of the trunk.

The place was so cowboy I could smell saddle leather and
horse sweat—right down to the bathroom mirrors and bunkhouse doors, interrupted
only by an incongruent flat screen television that hung on the rock wall by the
fireplace.

The kitchen cabinets were also made of wood that
matched the stairway and tall tree trunk. Late in life, Rocky discovered a
talent for carpentry and finish work and had done all the work himself.

Upstairs and downstairs made about 4000 square feet of a
beautiful, warm and rustic home.

Rocky showed me his trophy saddle and award for
the national championship.

Using
photographs from actual competitions, renowned artist Jana Sol had painted
images of Rocky riding a bronc and roping a steer on the head and foot boards
of the master bedroom bed.

Rocky’s wife Sharla arrived just as we came back down the
stairs.

We exchanged stories about Peet and Peet’s dad I had not
heard before and I told a few of my own family stories. Sharla shared stories
of her family. It had been her brother who guided me to their place. Both of
her brothers had been rodeo cowboys, too.

I learned Rocky and Sharla are raising two grandsons. When
the boys came inside from roping practice, I noticed one was limping. Seems a
horse had fallen on him that morning. His knee was swollen, but he tried to
hide the pain because he did not want to miss a trip to Hugo where Cody was
entered in a steer roping. His name was Pecos and his brother’s name was
Colton.

When I shook Pecos’s hand, he asked if I liked knives. I
said, “Sure. Why?”

“You want one?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer, but I nodded. A few minutes later, he placed two knives in my hand. “Which
one you like best?”

I figured it was some sort of prank, but I pointed at the
one with images of ducks on the handle. He placed it in my hand.I was not sure how to react. “Are you selling these knives?”

“You said you wanted one. I’m giving you that one.”

I looked to Rocky and Sharla. They signaled for
me to accept the knife saying, “He’s a good boy."

The men and boys left a few minutes later for the Hugo
roping. I visited with Sharla about Mary Evelyn and Peet, her parents, and hers
and Rocky’s history as childhood sweethearts.

I left for Ada to find another ancestor’s grave and ran into
another blind alley. Decided to head home and stop in Hugo to see if I could
catch Cody roping. I arrived just as they called his name.

A few weeks later, my grandson Gray Boy was scheduled to
have serious surgery on both legs. I took my pictures of Rocky and his family
and their home and told the story to him just before the surgery. I told him
about his distant cousin Pecos, showed him a family tree so he could connect
the dots, and gave him the knife Pecos gave to me.

So Pecos’s kind and generous gesture, his story, and his
knife have traveled to Texas and are in the hands and mind of a boy about his
age. Thanks, Pecos. A few weeks later, I sent both boys hoof picks with bone
handles.